a sycophantic, prophetic, socratic junkie wannabe
by Syrasha
Summary: Clara's first language isn't English, and Deacon's first language is bullshit, so together, they're a pretty terrible team.
1. Chapter 1

When Clara Pedersen met Nathaniel Davis, there was a music that swelled in her so loudly that she thought it would travel up from her stomach and make her heart explode. It was cliché and beautiful and left her with an aching body from which she thought she would never recover. She remembered it vividly, every detail, every way the military uniform he was wearing molded to his body.

_The Americans bring destruction everywhere they go_, her father had told her as she grew up, _they are no better than the Chinese at the end of the day._

He said it in that north Jutland accent, the one he never lost no matter how Clara's mother poked fun at him.

Clara loved the accent, a reminder of a Denmark where she had a home away from home. Here, just off the German border, the accent was different. Everyone sounded like her mother. Her father always said that even Clara sounded like her mother.

When Nate walked in, and the music swelled around her with every step he took in her direction. Clara wore a blue dress with gold-colored kitten heels, the necklace her mother had given to her when she turned eighteen around her neck. Clara's fingers stopped moving when he looked at her, and her lips parted just barely, and when he smiled, the world stopped just as easily as her fingers had.

She had stopped playing, but the music carried on like her fingers were still fluttering along the keys.

Clara remembered it as though she had a holo of it. She wished she had a holo of it, the way his voice harmonized with how she fiddled absentmindedly at the fabric at her waist.

"Hello, I'm Nate," he said, like he'd just teleported halfway across the room to her. He leaned against the piano, smile wide and almost too white. He was waiting for something, and Clara felt like she was stumbling even before she started speaking.

Clara had studied English in school, but never spoken it outside of a classroom except perhaps once or twice on holiday.

"C-Clara," she answered, softly, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the dream he had managed to construct so quickly.

"Clara?" he repeated after her, looking for clarification, saying her name in altogether the wrong accent.

"No, Clara. Clahr-uh," she enunciated it, and he repeated after her, still saying it wrong, and when she laughed, Clara knew.

Americans might have brought destruction everywhere they went, but this one? This one she had to have.

* * *

Her father threw a fit when she told him. She was the only child of a potato farmer, one who had done everything right to rise above her family's station; a law degree, even from the University of Copenhagen, her father said, would be worthless if she went with Nate, and that there was nothing that he could give her that she couldn't find on her own here in Denmark.

At that point, her mother had laughed, because Clara was just like her, she had said.

Clara's mother was right. Even if she had considered staying, she would have left just to spite him and his inability to support the decision she was wanting to make.

She and Nate had been together three weeks when she found herself on her way home with him, a whirlwind romance that would have made even a film star blush. English was a hurdle they were constantly trying to tackle, but one that was avoidable; Nate spoke a fairly proficient level of German from his time stationed in the military base just south of the Danish border, and Clara was near-fluent in German, so English only ever came into play when Nate invited friends to the house that really seemed too nice for a soldier who was only in his late twenties.

"This was my fourth deployment," Nate had told her in his heavy-handed German, as if that somehow explained things, as if she wasn't twenty-two and a fresh college graduate who had still been living with her parents.

Clara understood more than she spoke, but that wasn't truly giving her a lot of credit considering that her confidence in it would barely fill a thimble. Still, it didn't matter too much, because Nate was charismatic for the both of them in a way she could have been in Danish if she perhaps had ever gotten to put her law degree to use.

The degree gathered dust, sitting on the mantle right next to the medal Nate had once explained to her was for exemplary service or something else like that. He was so excited to have someone to take care of that Clara working never even crossed his mind. The one time she brought up maybe trying to find outside of the house, Nate had looked so hurt that she'd never brought it up again.

It didn't matter. He was beautiful and he loved her and she loved him and in just under a month and a half in this brave new world she was carving out for herself with Nate, Clara found herself with child. A week after that, she and Nate were married.

His family called it a shotgun wedding, a term she didn't understand until one of the military wives explained it to her. They didn't like her much, Nate's family, or at least it didn't seem like it. Even as Clara's vocabulary expanded, her understanding of tone was a constant struggle. They didn't speak any of the German that she and Nate used to bridge the gap between their worlds, and Clara's English was improving steadily but too slowly for anyone's liking.

When Shaun was born, English was the last thing on Clara's mind. There were diapers and bottles and all too much vomit, and the breastfeeding was so exhausting that Clara didn't realize that she had lost all her baby weight and ten more pounds on top of that until the baby's third check-up when Shaun was underweight and the tears that rolled down her face burned more calories than she'd eaten in the whole day. Even with Codsworth's assistance, she had managed to undernourish herself _and the baby_ while she'd been at it, and no amount of consoling from Nate or Codsworth had been able to make that feel any better.

The day after that, Nate bought her a piano, one so close to the kind that Clara had been playing the day she met him that she collapsed in the doorway the moment that she saw it.

Clara wasn't sure when the music died, when she stopped hearing crescendos every time Nate got close to her, but the second her fingers ghosted the keys, it was back, at least for bursts and moments.

The day she got her music back was the day before the bombs fell, the day before she stuffed her skin and bones body into a vault suit that wasn't tight enough to stop itself from sagging off of her, the day before she trusted Nate enough to take Shaun into that terrible cryopod. The day she got her music back was her birthday, and to celebrate her twenty-fifth year beginning, the world went to hell.

* * *

There is supposed to be tech in the vault. That's how he wound up here, bored out of his mind, with water that's too dirty for him to actually consider drinking it. Deacon's been posted up here for two days this time, and if he wasn't _certain _that it would be a gold mine this would feel like a waste of time. He's been scoping it out once every couple of weeks, staying a few days each time because he knows how the world works and every time he leaves he's pretty confident the vault will open up the second he turns his back.

Desdemona thinks he's too paranoid, even for them, for what they do, but Deacon knows they need to fortify the Switchboard even more than they already have, and if there's anything down in that vault that could give them the upper hand, Deacon'll be damned if he doesn't find it.

He props his feet up on the shoddy table and leans back in the chair where he's been sitting for the last hour or so, putting a little more faith in the chair's legs than perhaps someone else would, and closes his eyes. Deacon's eyes flutter shut, but he's not foolish enough to fall asleep, not here where he's exposed to any number of things. It's a good position for sniping, elevated, but it's not perfect and it's not like he has anyone to keep watch. The nap would have to wait. His body starts when he hears a shuddering creak that rattles the general quiet that's surrounded him the last forty-eight hours (well, save the mole rats and the radroaches, and honestly? _Fuck _those stingwings). He sits straight up, bracing his rifle against his lap, and the vault door starts to inch open, and well –

All he can think is that PAM definitely didn't account for this.

Deacon looks down his scope towards where the door has painstakingly slowly creaked open – with the safety _on,_ he's not an _animal_ – and there's really no way to miss that bright blue vault suit. The woman is looking around a little too wildly and her chest is heaving so quickly that she's going to succumb to hyperventilation if the Commonwealth doesn't eat her alive first. Her face is bright red and Deacon isn't sure if it's in terror at the world she's being faced with or if she's been crying, but when she whips around to make sure there's nothing behind her, he can make out faint tear tracks on her cheeks.

Deacon flips the safety off when he hears the familiar buzz of a bloatfly, swiveling quickly to put a quick and quiet bullet straight through its torso. This woman, this survivor, she's too horrorstruck to even notice the fly or her savior. Deacon supposes he prefers it that way. After a too long survey of the immediate vicinity, the woman stumbles down the hill towards that abandoned little town that looks like it would have been a pre-war wet dream. He watches her descent initially, and when he's convinced that she's not coming back, at least not right away, Deacon swings his body into motion and descends into the vault.

That big, beautiful freezey-gun is locked up in a case and why Deacon thought he would be able to unlock it is beyond him. He groans, knocking his forehead against the case in frustration before shouldering his rifle and deciding he ought to at least do a little exploring before reporting an absolute best to Desdemona (and Carrington, he thinks with a grimace).

* * *

Everything Clara sees makes her cry harder. The cockroaches are fifty times bigger than they were, her husband was murdered, and her baby was taken away from her when she was close enough that if there hadn't been glass in the way she could have reached out and touch the kidnapper.

Her husband is dead, her baby is taken, and all she has to show for it is the fact that her law degree had remained untouched, right next to Nate's medal on the mantle where they'd left the both of them when the bombs started falling. Whenever she thinks she's taken care of the tears, that maybe they've stopped flowing, they come surging back again. Clara grips the wedding ring she'd taken from Nate's body in her pocket and tries not to remember how cold he'd been, the way the blood spatter still stained his temple. The piano stands there still in the living room, and it had been perfectly tuned when Nate had gifted it to her.

How it survived is beyond Clara's imagining, and its presence brings a ghost of a smile to her face until she plays a chord and it twangs in such an ugly manner that she realizes she has no idea how long it has stood here, needing a tuning like she needs Shaun back in her arms.

The sob that chokes her has a mind of its own, and when she sees Codsworth, Clara thinks she is hallucinating.

Codsworth is asking for an explanation, for anything, and when he asks if Nate and Shaun would be joining them for dinner, Clara lets out a wail so primal that Deacon hears it as he is exiting Vault 111.

"Dead and gone, Codsworth," she says, the English feeling clunkier in her mouth than it ever had before, fighting for any words that felt natural. "Nate er død og Shaun blev kidnappet."

_Nate is dead and Shaun's been kidnapped._

She doesn't know if Codsworth understands her or feels the grief that is consuming her, but his voice chokes up like he does, and he lets her hold him as she sobs.

"There are people in Concord, Mum. Perhaps they could help us find young Shaun," Codsworth says, and when Clara looks at him, there are still tears glistening in her eyes. She nods nonetheless, and rights herself, brushing off the legs of her jumpsuit and trying to swallow the sob that seems to surface with every other breath.

_The Americans bring destruction everywhere they go_, her father had said, and Clara wonders if she'll ever hear that North Jutland accent again, wonders if North Jutland even exists anymore, if Denmark is still sovereign, and when she realizes that it doesn't matter, she laughs a little hysterically. Nate was the decorated war veteran, and his little housewife is the one who survived the nuclear apocalypse. Her mother had always loved a good subversive laugh, and the universe was certainly having one at her expense. That is the only explanation she can think of for this.

Clara kicks over a can as she heads east towards the gas station she and Nate always stopped by on the way to Concord, and lets her tears dry without wiping them away.


	2. Chapter 2

She is not cut out for this.

Clara has fought tooth and nail since she crawled out of the vault, and Concord hadn't been particularly kind either. The Garvey fellow seems upstanding enough, kind to her when it was clear that she was completely out of her depth (though he of course hadn't turned down her help). When the old woman tells her, "Perhaps Diamond City has the answers you seek," or something similarly cryptic, Clara has to ask for clarification three times before she understands.

She makes sure to ask for clarification, because Clara's pretty certain that she agreed to be the leader of the Minutemen on accident, and Preston looks so delighted that she doesn't have the heart to rescind her acceptance.

If she tries to look at it how Nate would, the Minutemen would be resources, assets. To a mother, being the General of the Minutemen in the current state seems a lot like an underpaid babysitting position.

Needless to say, when Preston offers to accompany her to Diamond City, she has to turn him down. Sure, he might have been useful in making sure she didn't agree to become the General of another institution –

But she _loves_ this dog. Clara loves this dog (Dogmeat? The name still kind of gives her the willies) more than she thought she could care about anything that was truly of this wasteland, and she's truly thankful that the Red Rocket stop had ended in their fateful meeting. Clara and Dogmeat vs. the world? Well, she is supremely underqualified, but she thinks they have a decent chance. What was it Nate had said she had? It feels like it's been less than a day since she's seen him; there's no way she's already forgotten.

What _was_ it?

Clara grips her forehead and moans, the grief flooding back because she's not sure if it's the words or her memory or _both_ that's the problem.

Dogmeat turns and whimpers at her worriedly from his scouting position several yards ahead, bounding back when he sees Clara has stopped. He licks her hand where it drops from her face, and Clara remembers like a lightning strike.

Nerve. Nate had always said she had nerve, that anyone who would pack up their life the way that she had had serious nerve. Clara smiles before she remembers that she'll never see him again unless it's when returning to the vault to recover and bury his corpse. Her heart is swelling with grief again, and she quells it as best she can before beginning to move forward again.

Dogmeat's a faithful scout, and he lets her know whenever there's potential danger so that, well, she can crouch down and avoid it by any means necessary. Combat in the power armor had been terrifying enough, and she hadn't been nearly as exposed in that, although the terror that _deathclaw_ thing had commanded had been horrifying enough.

Dogmeat is happy to sneak along beside her, and he always seems to know just when to press up against her side for comfort, when the Commonwealth is becoming too overwhelming for her to rationalize.

She really does love this dog.

When she finally reaches Diamond City, she feels like she could punch herself, because it's Fenway Park. _Diamond_ City? Of _course_ it's fucking Fenway. Clara and Nate hadn't had a whole lot of time together before what Clara wouldn't hesitate to call a disaster, all things considered, but he had taken her to enough games for her to recognize where she is standing now, watching a woman in red shout down some kind of intercom system.

"Come _on_, Danny, you can't just keep me out! I _live _here!" The woman's hands are up in the air like she can't believe this is happening, and from the loudspeaker, Clara hears another voice.

"Sorry, Miss Piper, Mayor's orders."

To his credit, the man does sound a fair bit upset about it, and Clara has already found herself sympathizing with the woman when she turns and notices Clara.

"Well, uh," Piper says, a sly look on her face, "That's too bad, Danny, because I've got a trader from Quincy here with _loads _of supplies."

Before Clara knows what's happening, she is nodding along and letting Piper lead her through a conversation she barely realizes is happening before it's over.

* * *

The Railroad has always had tendrils in Diamond City. It's the most susceptible to the Institute for several reasons, mostly that it's the largest settlement in the Commonwealth, but the rumor that Mayor McDonough is a synth is enough reason alone to keep someone on the inside. Mostly they have tourists there, but Deacon stops in every now and then. There are enough guards in Diamond City that he can slide into the ranks relatively undetected, and any discrepancies he can explain away easily enough because, in a true shock, the Diamond City guardsmen _aren't really very bright_.

Piper's what Diamond City calls a troublemaker, but despite her fearmongering, Deacon thinks she could be an ally. Truth, justice? Both Railroad principles, if Deacon isn't mistaken.

When the gate swings open, slowly creaking, he's not sure what to expect. He doesn't recognize the second voice that Danny's been talking to, but that's not super unusual. There are plenty of people in Diamond City whose voices he doesn't recognize, and plenty more whose faces he only knows in passing, but well, when the gate swings open, he doesn't expect _that._

There's the vault girl, in that bright blue suit he couldn't miss if he tried. She looks different up close, younger, a little too thin by vault standards (vault dwellers are usually softer around the edges, but she looks more like a wastelander with her sharp lines and angles), but the dirty blonde hair is the same and so is the aura of well-hidden anguish. She's got a dog with her, one that looks like it could be fearsome in a fight but for now seems content to let its tongue loll out of his mouth and look at the vault girl adoringly.

Deacon doesn't really believe in fate, but running into her again after breaking into her vault to find everyone else dead (and the _goddamn_ Cryolator sealed up tight) seems like too much of a coincidence even for the Commonwealth. Danny's rubbing the back of his neck in barely-concealed anxiety; the vault girl clearly isn't a trader, and when the mayor arrives, he sees the same thing immediately.

"Oh, Mayor McDonough," Piper says on his arrival in a voice that's barely civil, "See you're trying to keep residents out of the city now."

The dog with the vault girl decidedly does _not_ like McDonough, and the dog's instincts probably aren't misplaced, Deacon thinks with a bit of an internal chuckle. The dog is growling and his ears are flat against his head, and he refuses to stray from the vault girl's side. She scratches his head gently, wanting to defuse some of the tension that's gathered behind the dog's eyes, and the dog sits, but doesn't stop growling.

Deacon doesn't think that the vitriol in her voice is particularly misplaced, but he knows too that accusing McDonough of being a synth all the time may be catching up with her. The vault girl doesn't, though, and her eyes go wide in disdain.

"Y-you mean he wasn't k-kidding about you not being allowed i-in?" There's an undercurrent of outrage there, but it's hard to pick out between the stuttering that sounds like a confidence issue and the accent that's so heavy that McDonough does a double take. Her cheeks go a little red; she knows she sounds different, and she's skeptical when McDonough's politician smile comes out in full force.

"Now, Ms. Wright, you had to know there would be _consequences_ for publishing that libel, though I suppose the consequences don't matter much when Mr. Sullivan is more than happy to let you in anyways."

Danny sinks down as though he's trying to make himself as small as possible, but Piper's lips are twisted in disdain. "Our fearless _mayor_ here," Piper says to the vault girl, "doesn't like anyone questioning him when he does shady, underhanded things."

Deacon doesn't think the vault girl's eyes could go any wider. "D-doesn't that, um…" she squeezes her eyes shut like she's searching for a word that she's logged somewhere in her head, and when she finds it she brightens up again, "Impede! Doesn't that impede the freedom of the press? Or does that not matter here in the wasteland?" The stutter disappears in her excitement, and Deacon finds himself smiling a little bit at that.

Piper gives the vault girl a once-over before nodding in approval. "Yes, indeed, Mayor ours. How can we set ourselves apart from the horde of raider gangs if we don't appreciate things like the freedom of the press?"

The vault girl looks over at him and makes eye contact, and Deacon gives her a small smile and the biggest nod he can get away without drawing attention to himself from Piper and Mayor McDonough. The mayor is still schmoozing in a way that only politicians know how, and when he asks the vault girl what brings her to Diamond City, the small smile on her face vanishes.

"Someone t-took my baby. Kidnapped him. I was hoping someone here could h-help me find him." Her accent gets thicker, like she's about to burst into tears on the spot.

Piper's voice drops a register. "I'm so sorry."

"As am I," McDonough says, although Deacon's not really sure he believes it. McDonough takes a step forward like he's going to comfort the vault girl, and Dogmeat lets out a warning bark that stops the mayor where he stands. "Unfortunately, the official Diamond City forces are stretched thin, as you can see." Deacon tries to hide the deadpan stare he can't help but give as McDonough continues. "We won't be able to help you, but perhaps the local detective can."

Piper's eyes are on fire. "How long are you going to ignore this, McDonough? People's kids have been going missing forever and no one's done a thing about it? Do you really wonder why people believe you're in league with the Institute?"

"_People_ don't believe I'm in league with the Institute, Ms. Wright. _You_ believe I'm in league with the Institute," McDonough says before looking at the vault girl one last time, side-eying the dog nervously. "I _am_ sorry, and I wish you the best of luck finding your son."

McDonough takes his leave, and Piper's rage is matched only by the tears the vault girl is trying _desperately_ to lock away. Piper softens when she realizes, and asks, "Hey, Blue? Don't think I ever caught your name."

The vault girl smiles, a little sadly. "Clara Davi- er, Clara Pedersen." Her accent is thicker around her name, and Piper smiles. "This is Dogmeat," Clara says, pointing to her companion, who is much better behaved now that McDonough isn't around. He barks when he hears his own name.

"Where are you from, Clara?" They're still standing there and Deacon's acting like he's watching the wasteland sprawling out outside the gate and Danny's pretty much disappeared for the moment, so he can act like he doesn't notice them if they want to pretend he's not there. Piper scratches behind Dogmeat's ears, and he flops over onto the ground, exposing his stomach in a gesture that's all too trusting for a place like Diamond City. Deacon resists the urge to scratch his belly. That seems like maybe stretching the character just a little too much.

Clara laughs, a giggly little thing that sounds a lot different than everything else she's said. "I don't think a-anyone here is going to be able to s-say my name right," Clara says, and she goes a bit quiet. "I don't even know if w-where I'm from still exists."

Piper's lips part softly. "Well," she says, "If that's true, then I guess you're going to need all the friends you can get. Piper Wright, intrepid reporter."

"N-nice to meet you, Piper," Clara says, smiling a little shyly, and Piper grins back at her, chattering away.

"I run the newspaper here, the Publick. Stop by and see me later if you've got the time. If you're looking for Nicky, he's down behind the marketplace. Best of luck, Blue."

Piper gives Clara one last smile and disappears into the city, leaving Clara in her wake. Clara's smile looks a little forced, like too much has happened in too little time, and that's a pretty fair assessment. Anything Piper's involved in is usually going a hundred miles an hour.

Clara takes one last look at the gate behind her and begins her descent into the city before Deacon stops her.

"Hey, kid," he starts, and she turns at that.

"Kid?" Clara raises an eyebrow, and Deacon shrugs.

"'Most everybody's a kid to me anymore, these days at least. I'm getting to be an old man," he says, sighing loudly for emphasis, the thick Diamond City accent blocky in his mouth. "Just wanted to tell you to keep an eye on that Pip-Boy. Lotta people'll do a lotta things for a piece of tech like that."

Clara's eyes are narrowed, and he's not sure why; it's a perfectly valid piece of advice, one that's weirdly free of any of his signature bullshit. Hell, even the dog is won over by it. Dogmeat bounds over and licks his hand before jumping up on his chest in a way that might've bowled him over if he hadn't been ready for it.

"Why are you talking l-like that?" she asks, and he doesn't answer, just raising an eyebrow while absently scratching the dog's left ear. "With a fake accent. It's close, but n-not quite right."

_That _throws him for a little bit of a loop. Deacon shrugs. "Tongue never fit in my mouth quite right. What's your excuse, kid?"

"That I-I'm not from here," she says, and after a moment of deliberation sticks her hand out in a decidedly archaic form of introduction. "Clara."

There's a voice in the back of Deacon's head that's telling him that this is a decidedly bad idea. Clara's already sniffed out the fact that his put-on accent isn't genuine, and giving her a name to put to the face is probably adding fuel to a fire that Desdemona _really_ wouldn't want burning.

"Marcus," he says, taking her hand in his and shaking it. Dogmeat protests when Deacon stops the ear scratches, and Deacon says, "Not sure how things were in your vault, but handshakes aren't in style too much around these parts. Just a word to the wise, friend to friend."

Dogmeat leaps to Clara's side as she steps away from him, and Deacon doesn't miss her rubbing the wedding band on her left hand with her thumb. Handshakes and wedding rings would single her out as an outsider if the vault suit didn't, a sore thumb in bright blue with a _111_ on the back that people couldn't miss if they tried.

"F-friend to friend? Might want to work o-on the accent," Clara says in that soft, shy little voice that hinted at a lack of confidence people would only notice if she opened her mouth. Clara nods at him and descends, and as she disappears, Deacon groans.

He's going to keep an eye on her, and it's going to be his little secret, and if Desdemona finds out, she's going to kill him. If there's one thing he's learned, though, it's to trust his gut in this line of work. "You can't be wasting Railroad resources on _hunches_, Deacon, for the _last _time!" she'd say, and Carrington would nod sagely, and he would suddenly realize that there was a very specific reason why he never came back to HQ for more than about thirty-seven seconds.

His gut's telling him that Clara "Davi- er," Pedersen is going to be kind of a big deal around the Commonwealth.


	3. Chapter 3

Nick Valentine's not quite human, and Clara doesn't know why she expected anything in this place to just be normal. This kind-hearted robo-man is not human but, in some ways, he is the most human person Clara has met since she came out of the freezer. Piper is nice, sensitive even, but she's still a product of this new and terrifying world, and Dogmeat's been her constant companion since Clara found him but he's still a dog.

He makes her recount watching Nate die, watching the man with the scar place a pistol to her husband's temple while the person in the hazmat suit holds Shaun in their sterile, unloving arms. Nick grimaces in all the right places, doesn't point out how her accent thickens every time she mentions _blood_ and _Nate_ and _my baby_, ignores how she fishes for words except for the one time when he manages to fill in the word _pistol_ for her.

When she's through with her story, Clara's hands are fisted in whatever loose fabric she can find in her vault suit. Her face is red and she's teary-eyed and she is not in any way prepared for what Nick says as soon as she manages to finish wading through the grief again.

"Everything you've told me, it all fits the M.O. of a man named Kellogg. Professional, ruthless, and most of all, lethal."

Clara's locked and loaded quicker than even she thought possible, and Dogmeat tenses as she does. "Where can I find him?"

Nick winces. "Look, kid," he begins, and for some reason it feels different when he says it than it did when that security guard, Marcus, had, "We've got a few different options, but none I'm willing to tell you without doing a little digging first. I know you're desperate to find your son, and I don't blame you, but I'm not about to send you in flying blind."

Clara swallows her tongue, because he looks poised to continue. There's a part of her that knows Nick is right, even if she all she really wants to do is go guns blazing after the man who stole Shaun, so Clara looks down a little sheepishly and listens, absently stroking Dogmeat's head.

"Also," Nick says, flexing the metal of his robotic hand and looking at her with those eerily yellow eyes, "I wouldn't send you after someone like _Kellogg_ with nothing but a ten millimeter pistol, not that I'd really let you go alone either. Give me some time, and you should stock up. Find a couple weapons you can count on and as much ammo as you can carry."

Nick's secretary, Ellie, is nodding, and Clara smiles weakly at her. "A-any suggestions on the b-best places to find w-work?"

"Diamond City is probably the most reputable," Ellie says, the first thing she's said since her emotional reunion with Nick, "but Goodneighbor pays better and doesn't care nearly as much about where you come from."

"No offense, but w-without Shaun, I don't m-much care about my reputation," Clara says, rolling her right ankle gently. It feels stiff, like she must have rolled it during some part of that whole storm with Skinny Malone. Clara rolled it several years ago (well, a couple centuries now, she thinks not a little bitterly) on a walk along the North Sea with her mother. If she concentrates hard enough, she can almost smell the salt of the sea, hear the waves slapping along the shoreline.

Clara's lost herself again, and Nick goes silent at the wistful look on her face. The tears well up but they don't break the surface, but only because Clara manages to avert her eyes from Nick's. "How l-long? How long d-do I have to g-gear up?"

"At least a week. Two weeks is a little more realistic," Nick says, and Clara winces. Nick leans forward. "It's been over two centuries since you've held your son. If two weeks is what it takes to make _sure_ you're able to hold him again, I'll strap you down and make sure you wait it myself."

Clara laughs a little bit at that, a sad chuckle, and that coaxes a smile out of Nick. She's not sure what it is about the detective, but there's something that makes her want to trust him despite the way Nick always creaks whenever he leans a little too far to the left. Ellie smiles at her like the mother Clara hasn't seen in a few centuries. When Clara finally speaks, she asks, "Your personal suggestion, Nick?"

The smell of smoke in this building is getting a little too strong for Clara's tolerance, and Nick's exhalation (does he have lungs?) doesn't help. "Goodneighbor," Nick says, "It's quite a bit east and a little north of here, but the caps are better. Steer clear of Boston Common."

"Why?" Clara asks; it had been a pretty little place before the bombs fell.

"Because Swan Pond is there. Trust me. The Common itself is crawling with raiders anyway, but at least stay away from Swan Pond."

There's an undertone of begging there, and it quells Clara's curiosity, at least for now. "Okay, N-Nick."

Nick nods. "Between you and me, you're not bad with that little pistol, but you need to find something that hits a little harder or you need to get a little better at sneaking, or you're not going to stand a chance." Nick pauses, leaning back like he's sizing her up. "You going to be able to find your way to Goodneighbor, or do you want me to come along?"

Clara starts shaking her head, but an outraged Ellie beats her to speaking. "What? You just got back, Nick! You're going to get yourself _killed_ out there and you don't even take a moment to breathe in between!"

Nick sighs. "Ellie, look-"

Clara cuts him off in the politest way she can. "N-no, Nick. Dogmeat can get me there. You've d-done enough for me for now."

Chuckling, Nick shakes his head. "Like you didn't pull the tin can out of the fire with Skinny," he says, and looks at both Clara and Ellie before sighing. "Alright, alright. I know when I'm beaten. I'll be here if you need me, Clara, and if you don't hear from me first, check back here in a couple of weeks. Sounds like Ellie's not going to let me leave."

Ellie scoffs with affectionate outrage, and Clara knows a cue to leave when she sees one. She thanks them both again and exits, winding her way to the market to stock up on the few stimpaks she can afford and as many bullets as she can carry. Clara knows she'll need the caps to stock up on all the gear required to take Kellogg as far down as he needs to be to get answers, but she's hoping that Goodneighbor will be as lucrative as Nick and Ellie had made it sound.

Dr. Sun doesn't seem to like her much, but she doesn't mind. It's easy enough to slip a hand into his pocket and steal the two stimpaks there when he turns to scold Dogmeat for licking at his left pantleg.

After a stop at the medical center and another stop to see Arturo (who Clara's _much_ fonder of), she and Dogmeat begin ascending the stairs to leave Diamond City. She's confident Dogmeat knows where they're going; he hasn't let her down yet. Still, she turns and casts a last look around the "Great Green Jewel" because Clara's not sure when (if?) she's coming back.

* * *

The vault girl's hair is always up. In the last week, Deacon has seen her in and around Diamond City, and never has a strand of hair not been pulled back out of her face. It looks like its dishwater blonde, but the light never hits it right in the strict bun he's only ever seen it in. It's a sign of rigidity, or discipline, he thinks, or maybe she just can't stand having her hair in her face. At least she hasn't changed out of the vault suit. He doesn't even have to look for her when she's wearing that.

"Come on, the view's not that great, and you can't even smell the noodles from here."

Deacon is at the top of the stairs. Clara has taken her sweet time ascending, but for the moment, Deacon has nothing but time. Dogmeat is delighted to see him, barking excitedly, and Deacon smiles at Dogmeat benevolently before reaching into his pocket.

"What do I got, huh, boy?" Deacon asks, and Dogmeat's tail waves wildly as he withdraws something that is probably crispy squirrel bits. Dogmeat eats it gently from Deacon's hand, and Clara smiles.

"You w-would give food t-to a dog l-like that?"

"Only dogs with lovely owners," Deacon drawls, and Clara rolls her eyes even though she can't hide the blush. "On your way out?" Deacon asks, and Clara nods.

"Goodneighbor," Clara says, stumbling a bit over the unfamiliar word.

Deacon raises an eyebrow. "Ghoul town?"

"Ghoul t-town, Marcus," Clara affirms, and Deacon is relatively confident someone must have at least warned her what a ghoul was – Valentine, probably. He's not one to send people out without knowing what they're up against.

"What takes you out that way?"

Clara chews her lip briefly, and Deacon's eyes flick from her too-white teeth to her fingernails, all chewed down to the nub. Anxiety isn't hard to come by in this world, and he can only imagine that there's quite a bit of culture shock to be found emerging from a vault even without the heartbreaking loss of a child.

"Caps," Clara finally says, like she's not sure why she's telling him but Deacon's worked very hard to construct an aura – _likeable, trustworthy, personable _– and it's always nice to see it working out. Clara continues, "I need r-resources to save my s-son and Goodneighbor's the most, um…" Clara pauses, and Deacon can see the gears turning in her head. "G-Goodneighbor's the most p-promising."

Deacon hums noncommittally. "Best of luck out there. Your dog friend know how to get you there?"

Dogmeat barks in what Deacon assumes is the affirmative, and Clara nods affectionately. "B-boy's never let me d-down before. Unless you're offering your, um, v-vast skillset?"

Is that a tease? It sounds like a tease, but it's hard to tell through the stutter and the accent. Deacon chuckles in what he hopes is a neutral tone. "Honey, you can't handle my vast skillset," he says, and Clara's eyebrows launch themselves into the stratosphere. Too much, maybe? The light hits the wedding band on her finger, and Deacon only remembers it in that moment. Rookie mistake.

"Honey?" Clara asks, skeptical and dangerous at the same time. Deacon's pretty confident that the vault girl can't take him in a fight. She's underfed even compared to him, and if a survey's any indicator, Clara's only packing a ten millimeter.

Deacon shrugs. "Wanted to see if it fit you better than kid, because you didn't seem to like it much. You seem to hate 'honey' just enough for us to keep it."

"Delightful," Clara says flatly, accent somehow just making it even more hilarious to Deacon. "Goodbye, Marcus."

Clara starts walking away, and Deacon says, "Clara," just quickly enough to catch her and Dogmeat both. "Watch out for the Common, honey."

"I've heard," she says, and it sounds like it's through gritted teeth, but Clara doesn't give him the satisfaction of stopping and turning around, and just like that, she's off in the wasteland again, Dogmeat faithfully by her side.

The days as a Diamond City guard without any of the actual privileges of a Diamond City guard are long, and as a gate guard, he mostly chats up Danny Sullivan and directs scavvers to Diamond City Surplus. The latest scavver's a little more alert than the last few; when vagrants show up, they're normally dehydrated, hungry, and exhausted. This one is bright-eyed and flighty.

"Hey, pal," the scavver says, looking through Danny Sullivan straight to Deacon. "Do you have a Geiger counter?"

Deacon's recoils a bit; this is not in the schedule, and normally the consensus is that Deacon is to be left alone during field work unless there's an emergency.

The way this scavver's eyes are darting around makes this look like an emergency. Deacon's slow to respond, but gets there eventually. "Yeah, but mine's in the shop."

When Deacon makes it to the Switchboard, it's just in time to witness all the bloodshot firsthand and get shot in the arm before Glory drags him out.


	4. Chapter 4

The arm wound is not as terrible as it had felt when Glory had taken him by the upper arm to drag him into the moonlit Commonwealth. Deacon's been shot a few (dozen) times, but there's something about the fact that he had been in so much shock at the people he's helped train, lied to, lost bets with Glory over lying there around him in various states of dismemberment and gore.

Lily was nineteen years old, and now she's barely more than ash on the ground in front of him.

Glory grabs him by the upper arm, and in her rush to get him to safety, she clasps her fingers around what's barely more than a heavy graze. It's enough to make him cry out in pain, but Deacon's not sure if the pain is from the actual wound or the fact that the last time he talked to Lily she told him about the tabby cat she had started bottle-feeding after it was rejected by its mother.

He doesn't remember getting dragged out of the building, just Glory's words slurring together in his head while the colors around him swam. Desdemona's there, too, somewhere, the picture of calm efficiency, but Deacon can't make his legs work. When the colors stop swimming, it's because everything has gone black.

* * *

There's a kind of music in Goodneighbor that Clara doesn't expect to find. It reminds her a little of the piano that's still wasting away back in Sanctuary. These people are crass and crude and all too many of them are high, but there's a kind of violent beauty in how Hancock is just as likely to lend a hand as he is to stab someone.

No amount of preparation given to her by Nick would have prepared Clara for Goodneighbor, the place where she sees a man stabbed within the first ten minutes of her arrival. Once she's able to wrap her mind around what a ghoul really is, as opposed to the description Nick and Ellie gave her and the experiences she's had with the ferals, Goodneighbor isn't so nervewracking, especially considering the monster she managed to glimpse at Swan Pond.

This might have a little to do with the fact that Hancock killed a man in front of her in a way that doesn't quite qualify as a dispute with raiders. Nick hadn't mentioned anything about more allies, but well, if she had learned anything from Nate in their short time together, it's that networking is what got Nate places. Clara doesn't know if she'd call Hancock an ally, but anyone who would stab a man like that, in broad daylight? She doesn't want to call him an enemy.

There is a brutality here that sings, an honestly Clara couldn't say she found in Diamond City, and it is as refreshing as it is terrifying. It's also nice to know that all that junk Dogmeat has been picking up and dragging back to her is worth something; Clara has at least six inhalers of jet that she has no use for, but Goodneighbor is definitely buying.

KL-E-0 is terrifying, but once Clara is able to get past all the ghoulness, Daisy is almost as kind as Nick, if a little rougher around the edges. Daisy smiles at Clara from the second she walks through the door, and when Clara smiles back, Daisy actually laughs, a raspy noise that sounds like it only occurs once a century.

"Well, look at that. You didn't even run away screaming," Daisy says, head tilted to the side in a welcoming manner.

"Is that c-common?"

Daisy doesn't comment on the accent, but the smile gets a little kinder. "Most of the vault people walking around up here see exposed sinuses and immediately run away as fast as they can. Now, you here to buy or trade?"

Daisy gives her back a few more caps than she should have. Not many, mind you, but enough that Clara notices it and tries to give them back, but Daisy scoffs and insists that she wouldn't have, "made a mistake."

The ghouls aren't so bad, if you can get past the exposed sinuses. Daisy hadn't been wrong in that that is just a wee bit unnerving.

Dogmeat is curled up on the bench outside Daisy's shop, and Clara sits herself down beside him, absently running her hand down his back and trying to figure out what to do next. She _needs_ to find some kind of job, and she's not above knocking a few heads together for the right amount of caps; Clara's just not sure how to get to that part. _Hey, I need a job please, and my dog is more qualified than me._ It sounds ridiculous in her head, and she's sure it would be even worse in practice. Lost in her head, she doesn't notice Dogmeat suddenly bound away and nearly tackle a man in sunglasses.

* * *

The dog is good. The dog is too good. He is licking Deacon's face like they're best pals from the University Point days, and holy _fuck_ it's a good thing that Clara's got that spacey, lost-in-her-head face on because anybody else in the Commonwealth would have noticed this highly suspect thing the moment it happened and recognized Marcus from the Diamond City gates.

Clara leans back, body language open, and Deacon's not sure why she's feeling so trusting of this terrible world around her until he notices Daisy watching from inside her shop. The vault girl trusts a ghoul. Shakespeare couldn't have written it better.

Deacon beat Clara to Goodneighbor by roughly three hours, and his arm is still stinging from the disaster at the Switchboard. Still, it had given him enough time to plant a couple _Join the Railroad_ tapes in the Old State House, one in KL-E-0's shop, and a few other places that he doesn't quite remember. If Clara is stopping for a breather, Deacon thinks as Dogmeat returns to her side, there's still time to set a few people whispering about the Railroad around town, too. Dogmeat starts barking to get Clara's attention, and Deacon slips away towards the Third Rail before she comes to her senses enough to notice him, tossing iguana bits after the dog in the most diplomatic maneuver he can manage.

* * *

When Clara finds work, she is thankful that she met Daisy before meeting Bobbi No-Nose. Technically, Clara supposes, Hancock is the first ghoul she met that wasn't trying to claw her face off, but Daisy is the one who really made an impression. Bobbi is sly, tough, and underhanded, and tells her to report to the dig site at nightfall, which leaves Dogmeat and Clara alone with only Clara's thoughts and the mobster-like neighborhood watchmen who look at her like she's a dead woman walking every time she gets too close.

The music's different now, and it's real, not just in Clara's head. Magnolia is a crooner, a sultry and velvety voice that Clara could even say she envies. She flits in and out of Goodneighbor's buildings and Dogmeat mostly leads the way. Clara rents a room at the Hotel Rexford though she may not see it until the morning if Bobbi's enthusiasm had been any indicator, and follows Magnolia's voice to the open door of the Third Rail, planning to spend the last few hours before she has to meet Bobbi at the dig site there.

* * *

Jesus Christ, he's _trying_ to be discreet. Clara herself isn't the problem; the dog is. Why does Clara show up everywhere Deacon is with that too-clever dog by her side?

* * *

Clara doesn't notice the man in sunglasses, and he evades Dogmeat's detection as well. There are too many smells down here for the dog to pick out Marcus's scent, and Clara's completely occupied with trying to keep Dogmeat off of Whitechapel Charlie's bar. Nothing in the Commonwealth seems particularly sanitary, but Charlie is offended enough that Clara tries to pay double for the shot of whiskey she buys, which, apparently, makes Charlie even more upset.

Why she let Codsworth lull her into the idea that every Mr. Handy in this godforsaken place would be a comfort is beyond Clara. Frankly, she feels she deserved the wake-up call.

Tossing back the whiskey, Clara swallows and sighs, Dogmeat calming down enough to wrap his body around the base of the stool she's sitting on. Clara's not looking for a buzz, just something to calm the nerves that have been firing wildly since she left Sanctuary.

She's not sure why she ordered whiskey. Clara had always been a bit of a vodka or rum girl; whiskey was Nate's thing, and as it burns down her throat, Clara swallows the tears with the alcohol, and wonders if Nate wouldn't have already found Shaun if he'd been the one to survive instead of her.

"Give me Shaun so you can change," Nate had said, already in the bright blue vault suit that she's still wearing, and she'd obliged. By the time she'd squeezed her body into too much spandex and a color that made her eyes look more gray than blue, Shaun and Nate were already at the next stage of processing, and then she was watching them enter that pod and thinking that her own arms felt helplessly empty.

Dogmeat headbutts her foot at the point of no return, because Clara's coming up to the point where she starts wondering _why me? Why couldn't I have died so that you could find Shaun? I should have died_. Clara looks down at the dog, but Dogmeat isn't looking at her. She follows his gaze to find a ghoul staring at her on the other end, a woman if the clothing is any indicator.

"I'm sorry," the ghoul says in that raspy voice that only radiation can cause. She takes a step forward, but Clara doesn't move from the chair. "But can I ask your name? You look like someone I knew once."

Nick had said that some of the ghouls around these parts were pre-war, but Clara could count on her fingers how many people in the greater Boston area knew her name before the bombs fell.

"C-Clara," she says, a little suspiciously, but the suspicion starts to fall away when the ghoul speaks again, sounding like she's close to crying if ghouls even can cry.

"It _is _you. You look just like before: the hairstyle, the accent, the sad eyes-"

Clara's never heard that her eyes are sad before. Given everything that's happened since she came out of the vault, now it would make sense, but before?

"Clara, it's Amelia. Joey's wife. Remember?" The ghoul is getting closer and closer, and Clara takes a sharp breath in, because it's like she almost remembers but not quite. "I brought the potato salad to the football game the Saturday before the bombs fell, and you made those pork meatballs that had a name no one could pronounce."

"Frikadeller," Clara says, and when the word comes out of her mouth, she can almost taste them for the briefest of seconds, pork and oats and onion. She launches herself out of her place at the bar and wraps her arms around Amelia's neck in an intimate hug. Amelia had always been one of the kinder military wives, the one who'd explained what a shotgun wedding was, and that, with more time, Clara had thought could have been a good friend even if they hadn't met through their husbands.

When Clara pulls away, it's hard to reconcile the face she sees with the Amelia she knew, but it_ must_ be her.

"You look exactly the way I remember you before the bombs fell. Where have you been all these years?" Amelia asks, and it's a fair question. Clara doesn't want to relive this experience again; she's just given it to Nick back in Diamond City, and she replays it in her head all the time anyway, but Amelia might even understand better than Nick had.

* * *

Daisy first and now this random ghoul in the Third Rail? Clara couldn't be more full of surprises if she tried to be, Deacon muses. Watching her talk with Amelia is a little like watching a time capsule, and it makes Deacon wonder when exactly Clara wound up in the vault. Most vaulties are born down in them, but if she knows a ghoul topside, then that complicates things. Maybe the ghoul had been in the vault, too? That doesn't really make sense either; everyone else in Vault 111 had been dead when Deacon had investigated after his failed Cryolator burglary.

There had been two empty pods, he muses, like that somehow makes this situation make more sense. If he'd been a better hacker he could have gotten into the overseer's notes, and maybe then he'd understand a little more.

Still, patience is a virtue, and Deacon's planted enough Railroad propaganda in Goodneighbor that it's impossible that Clara will leave without having at least heard of them. Deacon doesn't know what she and Nick put together, but if he knows Valentine at all, then she'll have an idea that the Institute is involved in taking her son. Deacon doesn't know that for a fact, of course, but it fits everything the Railroad knows, which isn't much. The Institute's been kidnapping people for years.

And if the Institute is involved (and Deacon is pretty confident about that), then Clara and the Railroad make a logical partnership. After the Switchboard, the Railroad's not in a position to turn down any partnership, much less one as fitting as theirs would be with Clara.

Deacon doesn't like needing people, but the Railroad needs Clara, and Clara needs them.

* * *

Clara manages not to cry the whole time she's recounting her story, and Amelia is a blast from the past that Clara has been aching for. When everything's said and done, Clara's exhausted and it's almost time to go to the dig site, but she doesn't slip away before Amelia pulls her in for a final hug, squeezing tight in a way that she hasn't felt since Nate died.

"I j-just don't know h-how I'm going to d-do this, Lia. I r-really don't," Clara says, and it's closer to a sniffle than she wants to admit. Amelia smiles gently, and Clara can feel it from where Amelia's chin is resting on her shoulder.

"Clara," Amelia says, bracing Clara's shoulders, "You moved across the Atlantic for a man you'd only known for three weeks. You can do anything." Clara stays silent; she's not sure if it's true, but it's certainly nice to hear. Amelia continues, "If you really think it's the Institute, there's a group out there that's dedicated to fighting them. Their focus is on freeing synths from the Institute, but if anyone knows how to hit _back_ at the Institute, it's the Railroad."

It seems a little like a waste of time to be searching out friends when she could be looking for her sons, but Amelia's point is solid. What she's saying is a reiteration of what Nick had, but she says it a little more beautifully when she starts speaking again.

"You need all the firepower you can get so that when you find the bastards who took your baby, you can blow them all to hell."

Clara's quiet for a little too long, and finally, she asks, "How do I find them?"

Amelia smiles, and it's almost bloodthirsty without the lips to soften it. "Follow the Freedom Trail."


	5. Chapter 5

When Clara tells Amelia about Bobbi's dig and what a disaster it turned out to be, Amelia laughs. Clara's a little offended, and thinks Amelia's laughing at her, but Amelia shakes her head. "I didn't think No-Nose was stupid enough to take on Hancock, of all people."

Hancock offers to travel with Clara, and Clara considers the offer in a way that she hadn't with Piper and Nick. Hancock's smart, savvy, and intimidating, but there's something that Clara can't quite put her finger on that makes her incapable of saying yes, telling him that if he wants to, "take a walk," as Hancock puts it, Sanctuary and the Minutemen could put him to use. Clara doesn't know if Hancock will take her up on it, but it doesn't stop her from extending the offer to Amelia as well.

"You c-can come back to S-Sanctuary," Clara says, holding Amelia's hands in hers, "There's good people there, a-and maybe once I c-catch a moment we can have afternoon t-tea."

Amelia laughs, a rasp and growl deep in her throat. "I haven't had tea in two hundred some years, but if you find it, certainly come knocking on my door." Clara's pretty certain Amelia will at least come for a visit, if nothing else.

Clara remembers the Freedom Trail; Nate had always talked about how they were going to walk it as soon as they got a chance, and then, well, the bombs fell. The irony of walking it now, looking for friends to help her avenge her murdered husband and find her kidnapped son, is not lost on Clara. Finding out about it here, in Goodneighbor, saves her several stops on the walk, and one of the stops would have been Swan Pond anyway. Going past Swan Pond again is something that Clara is not going to do unless Shaun is in the pond itself.

The Old Corner bookstore, to Faneuil Hall, to the Paul Revere House, and then the Old North Church, if she remembers what Nate told her correctly, and when she and Dogmeat get ready to leave Goodneighbor, there's a telltale red line leading her along the way.

It's been three or four days since she saw Nick in Diamond City, so there's still a week and a half until she's supposed to check back in with the detective. Each day is agony, wondering whether or not her son is seeing the sun rise every morning as she is, and if each day she's preparing might be the day that she becomes too late.

There are a few positives to this experience, though they don't match up to the pain of not having Shaun in her arms and not having Nate by her side. Clara hasn't always been so thin, but the trip to America hadn't agreed with her; still, in the Commonwealth, where everyone she's seen has been undernourished, her body type is the norm. On top of that, every day Clara speaks English is another day of experience, and while the stutter hasn't disappeared, it's much less prominent. Her accent, of course, is still a kind of disaster; every time she has to repeat herself to a merchant is horrifying.

She misses Danish though, and speaks a little of it to Dogmeat whenever the chance arises, but it doesn't mean much when he can't respond in kind. Missing her native tongue seems like a small complaint compared to the other problems in her life, but to Clara, it's a little like the cherry on top of the misfortune sundae.

The Old Corner bookstore isn't much of a problem to clear the path through. There are a few feral ghouls, but Dogmeat is able to rip one's throat out before they even rise from the prone position, and Clara manages to cripple one of the other one's leg as Dogmeat takes care of the second. Once she does that, the ghoul can't move nearly as easily, and it's far from clinical but Clara is able to put a bullet through its forehead.

She's bought a couple different pieces to experiment with – a sniper rifle, a shotgun, and something K-L-E0 called a laser pistol – but Clara's not too comfortable with any gun quite yet. The 10mm she has makes her feel the closest to comfortable, but the gun still feels heavy in her hands. It feels a lot like how it had when she'd tried to pick up a guitar, too heavy, more like blunt force than the precision she associated with a piano.

Clara's little pistol sings, though, even if Clara can't understand the music. The notes are too heavy, harsh, like they want Clara to refine them but she doesn't have the tools or know-how.

* * *

Besides Swan Pond, which the Freedom Trail runs right beside, Deacon would say that Faneuil Hall is the most dangerous spot people will encounter on their way to the Railroad except for maybe the catacombs in the church itself. Ghouls can be tricky even in open spaces with room to run, and they are much more so in enclosed areas, and, well, catacombs are pretty tight.

Faneuil Hall, though, is its own little monster. Deacon doesn't know what it is about it, but every time someone clears out the Big Green Guys, the super mutants re-establish themselves within the week. If Clara is going to have trouble anywhere, if there's anywhere that her dog can't protect her, it's at Faneuil Hall.

This is all completely unrelated to the fact that he's posted up on top of a building just south of Faneuil Hall. Deacon's not looking to start a fight, but well, if the vault girl manages to start one she can't finish, then he's not opposed to lending her a hand. He's feeling a little altruistic today, and the Railroad needs Clara anyway, even if his hunch is wrong and Clara ends up being just another body to throw at the Institute. Deacon thinks his gut is still right, that Clara's not great with a gun yet but that she's got the kind of drive that they need, but if it's not, then Desdemona won't say no to one more person willing to wave a gun around for the cause.

For what she lacks in raw killing skill, Clara makes up a lot of points in sneakiness, and the dog is a lot more subtle than Deacon would have given him credit for at first glance. Dogmeat has great discretion in apparently everything except for blowing Deacon's carefully crafted cover.

It's kind of a marvel to watch, in an incredibly uncultivated way. Clara doesn't like to get her hands dirty, that much is clear, and Dogmeat is more than happy to slink along next to her. Once, the dog even noses her side when she's getting ready to walk into a fragmentation mine, and Deacon actually shakes his head in disbelief. That kind of partnership would be a miracle for two humans, much more so considering that in this case one of the partners walks on four legs.

They weave around the ruins, Dogmeat and Clara, straying from the red line when they have to but managing never to leave Deacon's sight. When they stray a bit too far, Deacon can look down his scope, but he never loses them. Just when Deacon thinks that they're actually going to manage to maneuver themselves through without making a single mistake, Clara steps on broken glass that crunches underneath her boot.

Clara freezes briefly, and the fight or flight question runs through her head; Deacon can see it in her deer in the headlights eyes. She's tense, and when Dogmeat hears a supermutant's, "huh?" his ears flatten to his head. Deacon gets ready to line up for a shot, and just when he thinks that Clara's ready to fly, she turns to fight.

The super mutant is a brute, thicker than some of his brethren, but Clara and Dogmeat have managed to almost escape the ruins of Faneuil Hall, so the mutant is isolated. The mutant finally notices them, and gets ready to yell out some kind of battle cry that Deacon is sure would only reassure Clara and Dogmeat of his intelligence, but Dogmeat jumps forward first.

The dog launches himself ahead, up to the brute's neck, and the super mutant swallows the cry in what sounds like a gurgle of blood and pain to Deacon's faraway ears. Clara's eyes are wide, like she had been ready to fight but doesn't know what to do now that Dogmeat has taken the initiative, and in her hesitation, Deacon lines up the shot. He can't take it now, not with Dogmeat still attached to the mutant's neck; there's too much chance he'll blow the dog's head off, and there's no way Clara would join them if he killed her closest friend.

Well, he's come to be fond of the dog, too. A person doesn't just share iguana bits with someone and then not call them a friend.

The mutant finally manages to fling Dogmeat away, and he whimpers loudly as his body slams against the wall of some other nondescript ruin. Deacon doesn't know if he hears Clara's gasp or imagines it, but as he readies himself to take the shot, Clara throws herself at the mutant in a way that's too close to how Dogmeat had just moments before. She blocks his shot, and Deacon grimaces; he can't help her if she's that close, and it is almost a disaster. Clara is in his crosshairs for a brief moment, and his finger is tight on the trigger, but he's forced to relax. Saving her isn't worth _killing_ her.

Deacon hadn't realized she was packing a knife, but that's a mistake. The second she pulls it out of her right boot, it's clear it has been there the whole time, and Deacon just hasn't noticed. The mutant is flinging her around, bleeding from the neck and still unable to do anything more than gurgle. Clara holds on tight with one skinny arm, and with the other, plunges the knife into the side of the mutant's neck that Dogmeat hadn't managed to mangle. He falls, and when he falls, Clara stumbles back several steps, covered in blood and breathing heavily.

She takes one look down at herself, the state she's in, sweaty and covered in blood she helped draw, and vomits.

Deacon winces. The vault girl is still soft, and this is a lesson she has to learn (it's better to spill blood than lose your own), but it feels a little too voyeuristic to be watching her at this vulnerable. Hot blood hitting him in the face still isn't something Deacon is insensitive too, and that was a pretty brutal kill.

Clara recovers quickly, but it's not for her own sake. Dogmeat's breathing, but Deacon can barely make it out through his scope. Clara fumbles with a stimpak, looks Dogmeat up and down like she's not sure where to apply it on a living being that's not human, eventually settling on the scruff of his neck. Dogmeat's breathing deepens shortly after that, and Clara relaxes just slightly. She doesn't wipe off her face, but flops down next to the dog, pulling his head into her lap and stroking his blood-soaked fur with her similarly bloody hand.

Deacon gets ready to leave. There's time to beat them back to the church, especially if they're stopping for Dogmeat to rest up, and they'll have no problem the rest of the way on their own if they didn't need his help here, but the wind carries something up to him that he doesn't expect to hear.

"Solen er så rød, mor, og skoven bli'r så sort…" Clara sounds like she's close to crying, and her voice cracks a few times, but this sounds natural, like it must be her native language. Deacon doesn't have any clue what it might be. "Nu er solen død, mor, og dagen gået bort…"

The only person Deacon's ever heard sing that wasn't on the radio was Magnolia, except for that one time that Hancock was just a little too drunk. There's a part of him that would like to stay, but Deacon doesn't understand the song anyway, and he's already watched her vomit after being sprayed in super mutant blood. Clara probably deserves a little privacy.

* * *

Clara doesn't know what she expected.

She had to actually fight her way through the catacombs, couldn't just sneak through. The ghouls were too concentrated to avoid, and Clara thinks she killed around five and Dogmeat took care of probably nine. She loves Dogmeat desperately, and she briefly thought that she was going to lose him after the mutant slammed him against the wall, but a couple of stimpaks and a full night of sleep make him nearly good as new. Dogmeat barely even limps when he wakes up.

So here Clara is, in the basement of the Old North Church, with dried super mutant blood on her vault suit and some gross ghoul residue on the 10mm that she should really give a name, considering everything that she's put it through. She's fought through ghouls and super mutants and snuck around them too all to get stuck at a glorified decoder ring.

If Clara thought she could get away with it, she would scream in frustration, but she doesn't know if there are other ghouls or mirelurks or some other bullshit that wants to kill her down here.

She's tried all kinds of things but everything seems too simple, and most of them don't even work on the ring anyway. _Justice. Freedom. Synths. Slavery. Liberty._ Nothing works.

Clara's nearly ready to give up, because honestly? She didn't just clean out their house only to get turned away at the door. There's one final, half-assed attempt left in her, and Clara sarcastically spells out the word _railroad_ before turning to walk away. Just as she does, the wall creaks, the bricks come apart, and there's an opening for Clara to enter.

"You have got to b-be kidding me," Clara mumbles under her breath, and she and Dogmeat make it about five steps before there's a blinding spotlight on her. Clara's hand flies up to shield her eyes, and when they finally adjust, she can make out three figures standing there, two with guns pointed at her.

"You can stop right there," the figure in the middle says, a woman, the only one not pointing a gun at her. Clara puts both hands up now that her eyes have adjusted in a sign of universal surrender. "You've gone to a lot of trouble to arrange this meeting. Why?"

"I was looking for the R-Railroad," Clara says, and the other woman's voice is stern. She doesn't acknowledge Clara's accent, but that doesn't really mean anything.

"Well, you found them. How did you find us?"

"I heard about you from…" Clara's a little distracted by the giant gun the dark-skinned woman is holding steadily. "A friend in Goodneighbor?"

"Hancock?" The woman in the middle must be the leader. The other two haven't even tried speaking.

Clara doesn't say a word, but shakes her head.

"I suppose where you found us doesn't matter. What does matter is this: would you give your life for your fellow man, even if that man was a synth?"

Clara snorts, and the woman's gaze sharpens. "I-I'm sorry. It's just that I j-just almost got myself killed trying to s-save Nick Valentine," Clara says, and that garners a raised eyebrow.

"I suppose that answers that question then," the woman says before asking, "Why were you looking for us?" Clara looks to her left to find Dogmeat looking as unthreatening as possible before answering.

"I…" Clara starts and stops; this is still hard to say. "I think the I-Institute stole my son. My friend said you w-were the only ones who e-ever try to hit back."

The woman softens. "I'm so sorry."

There's movement behind the woman, and though the two guns stay aimed on Clara, the leader turns as a man walks out.

The woman opens her mouth like she's going to ask him a question, but she's cut off by Dogmeat barking delightedly, and when the dog bounds forward to greet the newcomer, Clara is thankful that the two people with guns had been distracted by this Deacon's arrival. Clara doesn't really understand why Dogmeat has such a reaction to him until she registers the sunglasses.

Sure, he's not wearing the glorified catcher's uniform, and he's got some kind of wig on, but that's absolutely Marcus from the Diamond City gate, and Clara's not sure what his game is, but he definitely has one.

"Hey, pal," Deacon says, leaning down to scratch Dogmeat's head to the dog's delight. Dogmeat's tail is wagging like it won't ever stop, only padding back to Clara when she whistles. "What can I do you for, Dez?" Deacon asks the woman in the middle.

"Well, clearly, you know something," she says, gesturing towards Clara.

"Whoa," Deacon says, "Newsflash, Boss? This lady's _kind_ of a big deal out there. General of the Minutemen? Clara Pedersen? Ringing any bells?"

The leader pinches the bridge of her nose exasperatedly. "Is this you vouching for her?"

Deacon shrugs noncommittally, and "Boss" sighs. "Fine," she says, like it's killing her to say it, "Start her off as a tourist." Turning to Clara she says, "Speak to Deacon when you're ready. He'll give you your first assignment."

Clara turns to where Deacon's standing, under the lights with her now, and when he gives her a lazy smile, Clara's pretty sure that Marcus isn't even real.


	6. Chapter 6

The vault girl has a scar on her neck that Deacon only notices while he's telling her that he'd consider it a favor if she didn't sell them out to the Institute. Her eyes darken when he even broaches the subject, and that's enough to make Deacon believe that it's probably safe to take her to what's left of the Switchboard. Passion like that? That'll all be wasted if they make Clara into a tourist. If they retrieve Carrington's prototype, they can skip all the bullshit Dez wants to waste time on.

The scar looks like a burn scar. Clara's never given any indication that she's been abused (accent's a little thicker and she stutters a little more when she's talking to men than she does when she's talking to women, but that could be explained a number of ways), not while he's been watching. She stands tall, doesn't flinch except when it's not unreasonable, but Deacon doesn't know how anybody would get a scar there if it wasn't inflicted by somebody else.

Deacon's pretty sure that he likes the vault girl, but he'll wait to see how she performs with a human partner before making a final decision. He watches Clara leave, and Dogmeat follows, but it's a little reluctant, like he almost wants to stay with Deacon. Clara says something almost stern in a language that Deacon doesn't understand, and Dogmeat whines quietly. She looks almost hurt when Dogmeat gives Deacon's hand a final lick before trotting after her.

Before meeting at their scheduled rendezvous point, Deacon changes. The ratty white t-shirt and rolled up jeans are comfortable, but he needs something a little warmer for out here. The Commonwealth is unforgiving, and, well, sometimes a little chilly.

Clara is less inconspicuous. She's still in the vault suit, but she must have stopped in a settlement somewhere before meeting him, because most of the blood is gone from the bright blue of her suit. The Minutemen are popping up in enclaves all over the 'Wealth. Clara could have stopped at any number of places and they would have been happy to welcome her long enough for her to clean up.

When she sees him, Deacon thinks she probably only recognizes him because of the sniper rifle he's got slung across his lap and the way that Dogmeat perks up when they come across him.

"D-Deacon?" Clara's stutter is pronounced, like she knows she's going to make a fool of herself if it isn't him. "I-is that y-you?"

"Like the disguise? It's what I wear when I wanna look like a Minuteman," he says, and Clara arches an eyebrow so high that Deacon thinks it might just disappear into her hairline. "You're lucky I didn't do one of my face swaps, too."

The eyebrow comes back down, and Clara squints, skeptical. Good. She's learning fast. "Face swaps? You change your face?"

Deacon shrugs, nonchalant. "Only when the women around Diamond City start beating down the Railroad's door, looking for that handsome guard, Marcus."

Clara's face goes up in flames; she doesn't like being reminded of the deception, but her expression is worth testing the waters just a bit. When she blotches up, Deacon can't even tell that that scar he noticed is on her neck.

"Anyway," Deacon continues, "The Railroad didn't always have this setup underneath the Old North Church. Before that, we had a base underneath a Slocum Joe's."

"Wait. S-Slocum Joe's? Isn't t-that a donut s-shop?" Clara asks.

"Look," Deacon says, "It was a lot better than it sounds. Trust me."

* * *

There's a swagger to Deacon that Clara struggles to place, and when she does, it hurts. Clara can't figure out what's real and what's not real about Deacon, but that swagger is real enough to look like a shadow of Nate come back to haunt her. She runs a finger along the cool metal of Nate's wedding ring, nestled safely in a pocket that the vault suit barely has. What on earth would her husband think of her now?

Dogmeat loves Deacon as much as he loved Marcus at the Diamond City gates, and Clara actually feels a little jealous of the way that Dogmeat pads after him. Dogmeat's never given any indication before that he likes someone more than he likes Clara, so having to fight for the dog's affection at all stings a little. Clara had always thought that Shaun loved Nate more, that he cried less when his father held him, even though she was the one who fed him from her breast and literally pushed him into this world.

Watching Dogmeat sit obediently in front of Deacon, tossing around some old teddy bear when the Railroad operative asks if he can do any tricks, rubs a wound that had started two hundred some years ago.

Ricky, the tourist they question, is an asshole. Still, even if Clara can't convince him to give them extra supplies, she thinks his information is probably credible. When she says so to Deacon, he nods.

"Yeah," he drawls, "Ricky's a piece of work, but I think he's probably being straight. Trouble with this job is figuring out the ten percent of the time people are trying to put one over on you as opposed to the ninety percent they're on the up and up.

They have two options, Deacon says; the three of them can try a frontal assault, or they can use the back entrance. Clara's really not sure how much use she'd be in a frontal assault anyway, so the back way is the only option she ever really considers. It's a bit of a trek, but Dogmeat scouts for them, and Deacon's able to snipe the little resistance they encounter on the way.

"I've n-never liked i-insects," Clara mumbles under her breath, not meaning for Deacon to hear it, but he does.

"I hear pre-war that they were even bigger," Deacon says, "Large enough that if you put seven or eight of them together they'd be almost the size of a house."

Everyone knows Clara is from a vault; the suit gives that much away. The only person she's told that she's pre-war, though, is Nick (and Ellie was there, too, Clara muses), so Deacon has no idea that before a week or two ago the only cockroaches Clara had ever seen hid in her pantry when she didn't keep it clean enough and that they were no bigger than her thumb.

If there's one thing she knows about men, though, it's that they like to hear that they're right. "I-Is that so?" Clara asks, disinterested but indulgent.

They fall silent when he realizes she's only playing along, not really taking the bait, and when Clara daintily drops down into the pipe that leads to the back entrance, Deacon is right behind her, with Dogmeat bringing up the rear.

"What exactly are we up against down here, you may be asking?" Deacon says, and Clara isn't sure if he's talking to her or to himself. "Well, the Institute found us here and now the place is overrun by synths. Be prepared."

Clara unholsters the 10mm that's always at her side, and motions Deacon forward to open the door.

"You're going to make the sniper go first? Unbelievable," he says, mock-incredulously, and when he steps inside, Clara follows.

This place sings from the moment she enters, but it's a sad song, one punctuated by the corpse that Clara has to step over in order to make progress, and the many more that she's sure are ahead.

* * *

She adapts well, and knows better than to take point somewhere she'd be flying even blinder than usual. Clara's little gun clinks against the gold of her wedding ring, drawing attention to it. Even when he and Barbara had been married, they'd never had rings. Anything valuable like that Deacon would have pawned off to make the farm even a little more habitable. Maybe wealth works differently in the vaults. Vaults like Vault 81 didn't seem to.

Clara steps gingerly over Lily's body, the one mangled at the entrance like she'd nearly made it out but not quite. Deacon briefly hopes that her cat is okay even if Lily herself couldn't make it.

Deacon can't figure out why he made it and Lily didn't; she was barely nineteen, with a good heart and a boyfriend and a cat who she had taken in. He wonders if her boyfriend even knows she's dead, or if he's still wondering. As far as he knows, Jack is still posted up in Randolph Safehouse, unless the Institute wiped that off the map, too. Deacon doesn't want to be the one to break that news, but he can't think of anyone else better qualified. It doesn't seem like the right kind of thing to break to someone via dead drop.

Deacon watches Clara, who has stepped over Lily's body, and the vault girl's breath catches.

"You alright, Boss?" Deacon asks. Clara jerks sharply towards him at that, and Deacon continues, "Figured it was better than kid or honey."

Clara swallows, and it looks like it gets stuck in her throat as she turns her gaze back to Lily. "She's not t-that much younger than m-me."

There's genuine grief there, even though Clara has no attachment whatsoever to Lily; she's grieving like Deacon would be if he had the capacity for anything other than being emotionally stunted. Clara kneels down and brushes Lily's eyelids closed, and she doesn't even know Lily's name.

"Anyway," Deacon says, clearing his throat, and Clara blinks away the sadness from her eyes, filing it away. "One of my colleagues, we'll call him Codename: Asshole, was working on a prototype, and it got left behind in the disaster here. We're here to collect it, return to Desdemona, and bask in some praise. Job was too big for just me, but it's perfect for you, me, and our furry friend here."

Dogmeat wags his tail when Deacon looks at him, and Clara nods, taking 'Codename: Asshole' in stride. A shame. Deacon wants to see the indignant blush again.

They make their way through the Switchboard, and Deacon's not used to taking point but Clara's happy to follow behind him. She flinches whenever they kill a synth, and they're only Gen 1s, and if Desdemona could see Clara like this, Deacon's pretty sure that she'd be welcomed with the most open of arms.

In the meantime, though, Deacon can only forget that he's surrounded by the corpses of people he helped train and recruit by talking.

"So what was it like in your vault? All scientific discovery and rationed water?"

Clara shrugs. "I don't r-remember a lot of i-it. M-mostly just that m-my husband was murdered a-and my son was t-taken."

She says it nonchalantly, but Deacon sees the way her jaw clenches, how her neck tenses. "Yikes. Talk about the world on your shoulders," Deacon says. They're nearing the prototype, Deacon thinks, or at least where it was the last time he knew.

"Y-yep," Clara says, and it's muttered, bitter under her breath. "An u-understatement."

She's angry and capable and passionate and driven. Clara and the Railroad are a perfect fit if ever there has been one.

Clara always lets Dogmeat draw fire and then picks them off as she can. It's a sniper's game, but she plays it with a pistol. Raw, unrefined, but teachable, and with practice, she'll be more lethal than she even had been at Faneuil Hall when Deacon had seen her plunge her knife into that super mutant. When they finally get into the storage room, and Deacon sighs sadly.

"Tommy," he says, and it's as close to a eulogy as Tommy Whispers is probably going to get.

Carrington's prototype is there, and Deacon picks it up as Clara collects the mini nuke that's on the shelf to the right of it. Clara either hasn't noticed Tommy's gun laying there next to his right hand on the floor or she doesn't want to appear eager to loot a dead man's pistol, but Deacon certainly isn't going to leave it there.

Deacon holds it by the silencer, offering it by the butt of the gun to Clara, and her eyebrows shoot up into the sky again.

"Tommy was a good agent. Great, even," Deacon says, and Clara still hasn't reached for the gun. "Consider this a good-faith gift that you'll perform just as well if not better. Tommy called it Deliverer." Clara finally takes it, inspecting it carefully before tossing the 10mm she's been using onto the ground, forgotten, and De

* * *

acon continues. "Plus, when you shoot that one, you won't alert the whole block where we are. You've kind of been cramping my style."

They split up once they've made it safely out of the Slocum Joe's and head their separate ways back to the Old North Church. Clara suspects that Deacon needs to report back independently before she sees Desdemona, and he moves much more quickly on his own anyway (according to Deacon himself, anyway).

Clara's not sure where she stands with Deacon. She can't get a read on him; just when she thinks she has, he shifts into something else entirely, like he's somewhere between person and spirit, but she can't deny he sings. Deacon doesn't sing like Nate had, doesn't make the music swell in that same overwhelming cacophony, but there's a song to him that makes Clara feel like he's probably worth keeping around, even if it means playing whatever game he's set up without her knowing.

When Clara gets back to the church basement, Deacon is extolling her virtue.

"Deacon says he was injured and that you killed at least two dozen synths all while hauling him out of the Switchboard," Desdemona says, clearly skeptical.

Clara flashes a look at Deacon, who's holding his right ankle like it's hurt, and says, "All t-true."

That takes Desdemona by surprise. "What?"

"I think m-maybe it was twenty-two instead of t-two dozen, but he can't be b-blamed for his inability to c-count."

The dark-skinned woman with the minigun snickers, and Deacon pouts in a way that's just juvenile enough to be almost endearing.

Desdemona sighs. "If that's the case, then – and it pains me to say this – then Deacon was right. We're in need of a new heavy anyway. Meet me inside and we can talk details."

Desdemona turns and disappears into the base that they have, a clear display of trust in turning her back, and Deacon smiles, still sitting next to the woman with the minigun.

"Welcome to the Railroad."

* * *

Desdemona asks what she wants to be called, and Deacon's interested to hear what she says. Clara asks if Desdemona has any suggestions, and Desdemona says it's a decision that Clara has to make for herself.

Clara looks Deacon straight in the face, and, without a hint of a stutter, she says, "Atlas."

Deacon doesn't get it at first, but remembers what he said in the Switchboard, and it makes a little more sense.

_Yikes. Talk about the world on your shoulders._

What a clever girl.


	7. Chapter 7

When Deacon asks Glory what she thinks of the situation, Glory says, "I think she'll last maybe a mission with you as her partner."

Glory does not have much faith in him. That's not new; Deacon is invaluable to the Railroad, but everyone in the organization hates his methods, even though his methods are the only thing that got the remains of the Railroad out of the Switchboard. He's got a good feeling about the vault girl, though. It's not trust, but it's faith that she's just what they need.

"You know," Deacon says, lazing as best he can on a chair that feels like it might bruise his ass if he sits in it too long, "I'm not usually one for partner work, but I wouldn't be opposed to keeping a good thing going, if you know what I'm saying."

There's an eyebrow waggle there in his voice, but Clara (_Atlas._ Gotta make the switch, D) either doesn't notice or elects to ignore it. She acknowledges him with, "I can't exactly s-stay."

Deacon knows she's got work to do, knows that Valentine's probably nearly ready to impart what information, and, well, Deacon really hates HQ most days anyhow. "My job's mainly intel," he says, "Knowing things? I do that best when I'm getting around." How much innuendo can he slide into a conversation before Atlas acknowledges it?

Atlas stretches, reaching her hands towards the ceiling. She's tall for a woman, sort of; everyone's shorter now than they were in the pre-war glory days, and Deacon would peg her at about 5'8". She's still angles and lines, their Atlas (she's _theirs _now; chalk up another victory for Deacon), and a shiver runs through her body when her arms fall back to her sides. Atlas flicks a glance over him, sizing him up.

"Alright, D-Deacon. Let's g-go."

The rest of the Railroad takes to her fairly quickly, or as quickly as an organization such as themselves can. Glory slams a hand on Atlas's back, a show of camaraderie, but Glory's probably three times thicker than Atlas is, and the friendly gesture throws Atlas off balance. She stumbles forward, and Glory laughs her deep chortle while Atlas responds with an almost shy giggle.

The Railroad's not quite a family, but it's close.

Atlas moves to take the front entrance, but Deacon grabs her by the elbow, planning to steer her towards the back exit. She tenses what little muscle she has, but doesn't flinch away, and Deacon nods his head towards the tunnel.

"We try to minimize traffic through the front," he says, and Atlas nods, eyes locked on his fingers around her arm.

* * *

Deacon withdraws his hand from Clara's arm, and Clara feels her body unwillingly relax. No one's touched her since the bombs fell, not without ulterior motives or a tire iron in their hands. If Clara imagines hard enough, they felt a little like Nate's fingers, but he's not Nate, he's some kind of spy, a freedom fighter, with a penchant for wigs and sunglasses.

Nate's deployment to Germany had been his first that was not combat-intensive. He would wake up some nights, thrashing, screaming in English that Clara wasn't yet equipped to understand. The dreams were so vivid they were more like hallucinations, he had said.

That's what this feels like, watching Deacon's fingers morph into Nate's before her eyes. A hallucination. Clara feels herself retreat into her own head, and she doesn't know how long Deacon has been staring at her before she comes back to reality.

"W-we," Clara starts, then stops, swallowing heavily and pushing Nate into as remote a corner as she can find inside her mind, "We should h-head back to Sanctuary b-before meeting up with N-Nick in Diamond C-City. Dogmeat deserves a b-break."

Truthfully, Clara doesn't want to compete for Dogmeat's attention with Deacon, who is a little too charismatic for his own good. Dogmeat would probably be happy to walk along between Clara and Deacon forever. Deacon nods. "You got it, boss. Lead the way," he says, and Clara surveys the Railroad Headquarters one last time before making for the exit.

Clara's not sure why she accepted Deacon's offer when there have been any number of people along the way who might have been a better fit that she refused. Nick has the deductive reasoning she needs. Piper has the empathy she wants to feel from literally anyone in this world. Hancock seems to know this world better than most anyone else, even if he's a little high a lot of the time. Preston would follow her to the ends of the Commonwealth after she agreed to be the General of the Minutemen.

Maybe it's that swagger she saw when they were clearing the Switchboard, or maybe it's because Dogmeat didn't have such an affinity for anybody else they came across. Whatever it is, Amelia had been right; it's easy to feel a little more confident with allies at her side.

If Deacon had been in Diamond City, Clara wonders if he'd been everywhere else, too.

* * *

Atlas picks up weird shit. She picks up literal junk – not "one man's trash, another man's treasure," junk, but Nuka-Cola bottles and broken hot plates. Strangest of all are the toys: board games, little cars, teddy bears, stuffed aliens. Deacon knows her son's missing, but couldn't she wait until they'd found him to start weighing them down with this stuff?

She's resourceful, though, managing to craft a makeshift saddlebag for Dogmeat out of what looks like an old cloth Super Duper Mart bag and twisting up duct tape so that the adhesive doesn't stick to Dogmeat's fur when she straps it onto him. Dogmeat loves Atlas so much that Deacon thinks he'd probably run headfirst into the Glowing Sea if she asked him to.

On top of that, the radio on her Pip-Boy is never off. "The yao guai out here don't like Travis very much, and the music doesn't suit them much better," Deacon says once, lightly, and Atlas fixes him with a withering glare that seems out of character with everything else he knows about her. Deacon's not sure, but he thinks the radio actually sounds louder after that, like she's turned it up to spite him. How charmingly petty.

They make quick time to Sanctuary Hills. It would have been quicker traveling alone, of course, but Atlas is pretty light on her feet, and Dogmeat keeps up just fine. Atlas's pace is slower than his might have been, but Deacon's calling her _boss_ for a reason. On anything not explicitly a Railroad matter, he's more than happy to follow her lead.

A dark-skinned man swarms Atlas on their arrival in Sanctuary, chattering a mile a minute with a smile on his face like he's happier to see Atlas than he's ever been to see anybody. Deacon recognizes him as Preston Garvey, by reputation and demeanor more than by appearance. Back before Preston was the last Minuteman, the Railroad had an uneasy alliance with the Minutemen; they take care of the humans of the Commonwealth, and the Railroad takes care of the synths. Preston's idealistic, kind, as close to an angel as probably could be found in this world, and despite Deacon's personal dislike for the Minutemen, he's not stupid enough to think that the Minutemen wouldn't make allies the Railroad could turn down.

Preston talks for nearly forty-five seconds without taking a breath, and Atlas's eyes are saucer-wide and still widening when she holds up a hand.

"P-Preston, I n-need you to slow d-down. It's hard for m-me to understand things c-coming at me that f-fast."

Deacon snorts but manages to disguise it as a cough, and when Preston starts again, Deacon pays a little closer attention. There's a settlement (Greentop Nursery) that needs their (well, the Minutemen's, or Atlas's) help with something.

Atlas nods. "We'll make t-time, Preston. I'm only back for the n-night, to escort Dogmeat h-home and get a rest."

Preston mimics her nod. "You got it, General. Your friend need a room?" he asks, gesturing to Deacon, who is generally trying to look unassuming.

"If it's n-not too much trouble. Do we h-have enough b-beds? I could grab Sturges a-and put together a couple before I call it a n-night."

Preston looks mortally offended at the idea that Atlas should have to do anything the moment she gets back, like he didn't just tell her that a settlement was in desperate need of assistance. "What do you think we've been up to while you were gone, General? There's plenty of beds and then some." Preston turns to Deacon and smiles. "Preston Garvey, Minuteman."

Atlas is watching him intently, wondering how Deacon's going to introduce himself. Deacon smirks lazily. "Marcus, Diamond City Guard."

The blush that creeps up Atlas's neck is so worth it.

* * *

She needs to figure out a way to ask, "Were you following me?" without saying so in those words, because Clara's confident Deacon will lie straight to her face if she just comes out and ask. Clara understands that Deacon doesn't want anyone to know his affiliation, especially with the Railroad being so vulnerable right now, but he could've picked any alias; she knows he _must_ have more than the one. He keeps bringing up Marcus to tease her.

Nate used to make fun of how her _th _sound in English didn't have an _h_ on it at all, so _thirsty _was just _tirsty_. He teased her about it so much that occasionally he would slip up when he didn't mean to, say _tree_ instead of _three_. Clara's thankful for his wedding ring in her pocket, a reminder of him, then remembers that she only has that reminder because she peeled it off of his frozen finger. The thought sobers Clara quickly.

"Oh, General," Preston says, pulling himself away from his conversation with Deacon, who he is escorting to a place with an unoccupied bed. "There's a woman here who was looking for you, a ghoul from Goodneighbor. Think she's down by the water."

Clara's face lights up, and turns on her heel towards the bridge, and she thinks she hears Deacon chuckle behind her, but she doesn't particularly care. Her hunch is right; it _is_ Amelia, standing there, looking pensively out over the water. "Lia!" Clara calls out, not wanting to startle her in this world where people are equally as likely to wave as they are to pull a gun when they're surprised.

Amelia whips around, but relaxes when she notices who it is, and the women meet in the middle. Clara wraps her arms around Amelia, smiling and breathing a greeting. "I'm so glad you c-came," she says, marveling at how her stutter nearly disappears when Amelia is around.

Amelia grins what once would have been a spectacular smile, one that's tempered now by the dull black of her eyes and her pocked cheeks. "Well," Amelia rasps, "I saw Hancock leaving town, and he said – a direct quote – 'that pretty little vault thing said I could take a walk around her neighborhood.' I knew I wasn't going to find much safer traveling company than him."

Clara smiles, but doesn't know how much of what Amelia says is true; Amelia has always had a penchant for embellishment that once would have been considered dramatic, but now that Clara's met Deacon, it seems downright tame. "Did you have much trouble? Getting here, I mean, or once you got h-here? I didn't really leave a-a note."

Amelia shrugs. "No more than usual. Your detective friend vouched for Hancock, and Hancock vouched for me."

Clara's eyebrows shoot up. "Detective f-friend?"

"Yeah," Amelia says, "Valentine. Nick Valentine, I think? Came here looking for you, said he'd gotten through something for you a little quicker than he'd planned, but he didn't know where you were."

"D-did he say anything else?" Clara asks, a little frantic, and Amelia shakes her head, wary with concern.

"No… Clara, he said he was just going back to his agency in Diamond City. He'll be there whenever you get there. If he's dug anything up on Shaun, he'll still have it. Breathe."

Clara's having trouble breathing, but she manages to say, "T-thanks, Amelia, but I think I should probably g-get going."

"Clara," Amelia says, and she's really trying her hardest to say Clara's name properly, but she can't, and it stings so much more than it should. Amelia takes Clara's hands, holds them steady as the rest of Clara shakes. "Don't do anything stupid. You're no use to Shaun dead."

Amelia's right, but Clara goes looking for Deacon anyway, and she finds him with one bite taken out of a squirrel-kebab, mouth moving a mile a minute chatting with Sturges, who he looks weirdly similar to.

"Change of plans, M-Marcus," Clara says, barely remembering to slide his pseudonym in place of his Railroad code name. "We're not g-going to be staying t-the night."

Deacon's more game than she expects him to be, hopping up from his seat and saying, "Rain check on dinner, Sturges?"

"Long as you're buying, Marcus," Sturges says, as unperturbed as ever.

Deacon grabs his rifle from the seat beside him and shoulders it, but Clara's not looking, already on her way southeast.


	8. Chapter 8

They don't sleep except for a couple of stolen minutes on the way back to see Nick. It's not enough, but Clara pushes on anyway, and Deacon doesn't try to change the pace.

It's weird walking into Diamond City with Deacon by her side instead of guarding the gate as Clara slinks in. Clara catches herself, too many times, reaching down to pat Dogmeat and not finding his comforting presence there.

Deacon either doesn't notice her the first couple times that she reaches for Dogmeat or he doesn't think it's comment-worthy until the third time. "If it makes you feel better, boss, you can scratch my head."

Clara hates the blush that crawls up her neck, every blotch a sign of her own body betraying her, and the betrayal worsens when she sees Deacon smirk at her. The thought flits through her mind that she doesn't know how old he is. He's fit, clearly, and a little better fed than the average wastelander, but there are lines that don't go away when he stops smirking, and if she looks closely at the skin around his sunglasses Clara thinks she can make out a few wrinkles around his eyes, too.

It's silly to be thinking about this when Nick supposedly has information about where Shaun is, so Clara shakes her head and lengthens her stride. Deacon stays tight on her heels in the bastardized catcher's uniform that all the Diamond City guards wear, and nobody thinks twice about stopping them until they run into Nat.

"Hey, lady! You're Piper's friend?" Nat says, voice a little less abrasive when she lights on Clara's vault suit. Clara nods, and Nat's face brightens immensely. "Here! Your interview with my sister sold out, but I saved you a copy!"

Clara doesn't have the heart to tell Nat that her English reading comprehension is even worse than her spoken English, so she tucks it into her pack and thanks Nat before scurrying away as fast as her legs can carry her.

"Not going to read your debut in the press, Atlas?" Deacon asks, and Clara doesn't stop walking to answer him.

"B-bigger fish to f-fry, Deacon." Clara hopes desperately that she is using that idiom right, and she must have been, because she doesn't think Deacon would have let her get away with it without poking fun if she hadn't.

Clara stops outside the detective agency, stills herself with a deep breath, and knocks twice on the rickety door. Deacon gives her a look, one with a raised eyebrow to match, and Clara matches her look with her own.

"No one's knocked since 2077, Atlas," Deacon says, but they're interrupted by Nick answering the door.

Nick would look like a detective out of a film if not for the mechanical bits, Clara thinks, and Deacon must have been right. He looks surprised that anyone would be rapping on the door, but Clara hears Ellie behind him say, "Oh, is that Clara? She's the only one who's ever knocked. They should really start that practice up again."

Clara feels the heat come into her face again, but Nick just smiles at her kindly. "Come on in, kid. We've got a lot to talk about."

Deacon looks at Clara in mock outrage. "I can't believe that you'd let another man call you kid."

"I c-can't believe that y-you never s-stop talking," Clara shoots back, as snarkily as she can when her stutter seems to worsen whenever there's a blush on her face.

Nick's eyes widen in recognition when he sees Clara's companion. "Deacon. Haven't seen you 'round these parts since I lost my Geiger counter.

"Yeah, well," Deacon says smoothly, "The shop's kind of out of commission at the moment."

Nick steps to the side to let them in, and Clara could hit herself. Deacon and Nick make for a logical partnership; of course they know each other. Nick's a synth on the inside in Diamond City, a place where people generally don't trust each other even as far as they can throw them, and Deacon's intelligence network seems to have tendrils everywhere.

Ellie greets Clara with a hug and a kiss on the cheek, affection that's surprising but not unwelcome. Ellie grips both her shoulders and says, "I'm so glad to see you! Do you want anything to drink?"

Clara shakes her head. Nick says, in what can only be described as a friendly scold, "She didn't come here for hospitality, El."

Ellie rolls her eyes, but backs off, and Clara takes a seat. Deacon stands just behind her, and Ellie takes a seat at what is normally Nick's desk. Every muscle in Clara's body is tense, and if someone surprised her now, she would easily jump through the shoddy ceiling of Nick's office.

Nick sighs like he doesn't know where to begin before leading with, "I found Kellogg."

* * *

Atlas's back goes ramrod straight when Nick says he knows where Kellogg is. Mumbling something under her breath in that same language that Deacon doesn't understand, Atlas quiets when Nick acts like he's going to continue.

"He's holed up in Fort Hagen, an old army base west of here. I scoped it out a bit. Didn't get too close, but the place has several turrets up top and it's crawling with synths. If my pre-war memories serve me right, there's a command center underneath. Kellogg's there; I'd put my money on it."

Atlas nods and stands, making a motion like she's ready to go and ready to go _now,_ but Nick says, "Wait."

If Atlas's hair was ever down from the bun that's so tight it must give her headaches, it might have whipped her in the face. Deacon marvels at how there's never a strand out of place. There's dirt smudged on her face, a rip in her vault suit that exposes skin near her ribs that should be at least covered by raider leathers if nothing else, but her hair stays as close to immaculate as possible at all times.

"You're no use to your son dead, Clara. Don't do anything stupid."

Atlas looks like she's got a biting remark dancing there just on the edge of her tongue, terror making her want to lash out. Deacon knows how that feels; it's a defense mechanism. He beats her to the punch, hoping to save her from saying something she might regret to Nick. "I'm the beauty, boss is the brains. I'm plenty of stupid for the both of us."

It works as a defusal of a bomb that may or may not have been ready to go off, and Ellie grips Atlas tight when Atlas says goodbye. Atlas steps out of the building, and Deacon makes to follow her, but not before Nick can say, "Deacon. Watch out for her."

Deacon acts like he doesn't hear, but he files it away, and when the door to Nick's office swings shut behind him, he asks, "Atlas? Still firing on all cylinders?"

"I d-don't know what that m-means," Atlas says, but begins her stride towards the gate. Her legs have to be at least a little shorter than his; Deacon doesn't know how she's keeping up that pace, but jogs to catch up with her before falling into stride.

"Was asking if you were okay, boss."

"P-peachy."

They don't exchange words again, ascending from the markets to the wasteland after stopping to pick up every bit of ammo they can afford. If Deacon counts the time, he and Atlas have been on the move for thirty-six hours, and they've gotten two hours of sleep between the two of them – an hour for Atlas and an hour for him. Atlas isn't showing any sign of stopping this pace.

Their subtlety compliments each others' skillsets. Deliverer is the perfect weapon for Atlas, letting her kill in the mid-range she likes without alerting anyone but the mark she's already shot to her presence, and if she does get caught, Deacon can almost always take out the person that's onto her. It's been a while since he's worked with a partner long-term (long-term being more than about three days); his last one had been Glory, too many moons ago, and he had known they weren't going to work out before the op even started.

This feels good. Refreshing, even, like there's a part of him that had wanted this and he hadn't even realized it. Whether he deserves this partnership is another thing entirely.

They are a few miles from Fort Hagen when Atlas's gait slows. She still shows no sign of stopping, but Atlas has slowed down and she is breathing more heavily than she has the last forty-eight hours now.

"Atlas."

When he says her codename the first time, she doesn't respond, just lightly picking her steps forward.

"_Atlas._" When Deacon calls out a second time, she hears him, and the fire is still there in her eyes but it's dulled to an ember. She's exhausted, and on the verge of tears, terrified for her son.

"We c-can't stop. My son n-needs me," Atlas says before he even says another word.

"Your son isn't going to have anything left but a corpse unless you recover for a minute before you go in after Kellogg."

Atlas clenches and unclenches her first before looking in the general direction of where Fort Hagen should be. When she looks back to Deacon, her jaw loosens, and Deacon expects an argument, but what he gets from her is, "Okay."

* * *

There's something a lot like a montage in her head, images flitting in and out that never solidify but are just real enough to make her feel.

The realest image is maybe the first one, Clara lying on a hospital bed with her feet propped up. There are stringy strands of hair clinging to her forehead, matted there by stress, and a few too many doctors there for Clara to feel comfortable. She thinks the baby's cresting, if the pain on her face is any indicator.

The first night home from the hospital may as well be a nightmare unto itself. Nate isn't home; Clara can't remember why, but the baby is crying and she's got a knife picked up from the kitchen and she's so tired that she can't even see straight. Suddenly she's over the bed with the knife in her hand and all Clara remembers is shame, so much shame that she's never divulged the fact that she almost killed Shaun herself when he wasn't even a week old.

The doctor tells her she's undernourished and, as a result, so is Shaun. He's lost weight instead of gained it and the fallout between her and Nate afterwards is enough to make Clara wonder if her father was right and she really had made a mistake coming to America at all.

The piano is a bright spot in a dark, dark night, a beautifully tuned masterpiece that brings back songs of Denmark that Clara had worried she might never hear again. Nate even smiles when she plays it, and Shaun stops crying long enough to listen to thirty seconds of music before erupting into tears again.

Clara finally jerks awake when she feels herself hand Shaun over to Nate, this baby she wasn't even sure she wanted that now she's scouring the Commonwealth to find, and she's crying. Clara's has rivulets running down her face in a way that's so dramatic it reminds her of a soap opera. She fell in love with her son somewhere along the line, when he was crying so much that she was getting barely two hours of sleep a night and when breastfeeding was leaving her exhausted and underweight. There's a part of her that's incomprehensibly thankful that she didn't have to relive coming up out of the vault again, rediscovering Sanctuary as a ruin.

She wonders if Deacon heard her, then realizes she doesn't care. He did hear or he didn't, and it clicks into place for Clara that she's grieving, that this has been trauma.

Clara's never understood the word traumatized before, but she gets it now.

* * *

Atlas's sleep is restless, and Deacon knows a nightmare when he sees one. She gets two hours of sleep before she comes to relieve Deacon of his watch, and Atlas wakes him after six hours.

Her eyes look downright bloodthirsty when she shakes him awake, this clever little vault girl. "Where's the fire?" Deacon asks, and she's already packing up camp to get on the move.

"I'm going to kill the man who stole my s-son and made me a widow."

Clara's voice is steady, only wavering on the word _son_. Deacon doesn't think that this will make her feel any better, killing Kellogg – killing the Deathclaws didn't bring Barbara back, after all – but he's also pretty confident that that's a lesson she has to learn on her own.


End file.
